“Gently,” said the man called Gargle. “Gently now. It’s a woman. A young woman. I thought as much.” He held the flashlight away so that Wren could see him. She had expected someone Caul’s age, but Gargle was younger. He was smiling. “What’s your name, young woman?”

“Wr-Wren,” Wren managed to stammer out. “Wr-Wren N-N-N-N-Natsworthy.” And when Gargle had managed to filter out all those extra N’s, his smile grew broader and warmer.

“Natsworthy? Not Tom Natsworthy’s child?”

“You know Dad?” asked Wren. In her confusion, she wondered if her father had also been coming down for secret meetings with the Lost Boys in the coves of the north shore, but of course Gargle was talking about the old days, before she was born.

“I remember him well,” said Gargle. “He was our guest for a bit aboard the Screw Worm. He’s a good man. Your mother would be his girl, the scar-faced one? What was she called…? Yes, Hester Shaw. I always thought that spoke well of Tom Natsworthy, that he could love someone like her. Appearances don’t matter to him. He looks deeper. That’s rare among the Drys.”

“What are we going to do with her, Gar?” asked the stranger who had caught Wren, in an odd, soft voice. “Is she fish food?”

“Let’s bring her aboard,” said Gargle. “I’d like to get to know Tom Natsworthy’s daughter.”

Wren, who had been calming down, grew panicky again. “I have to go home!” she squeaked, trying to edge away, but Gargle slipped his arm through hers.

“Just come aboard a moment,” he said, smiling pleasantly. “I’d like to talk. Explain why I’m lurking in your lake like a thief. Well, I am a thief, of course, but I think you should hear my side of the story before you make your decision.”